


Please Forgive Me

by righteousgonewrong



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blood, Cutting, Gen, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 06:37:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4381046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/righteousgonewrong/pseuds/righteousgonewrong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean develops a new coping method since escaping Hell. Unfortunately, it starts to get out of hand.</p>
<p>No real plot, just something I needed to write.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please Forgive Me

Dean felt empty.

It wasn't that he missed hell. Not even close. Even when he'd learned to find pleasure in the torture of helpless souls--he cringed at the thought--he'd still hated the place. He hated the combined stench of blood and sulfur, hated the constant ringing of screams that seemed to come from both near and far in every direction. 

_You didn't hate it at the time,_ a voice like Alastair's sang in his head. 

He tried to block it out, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth as though he could shut the voice out. Suddenly a familiar feeling washed over him. 

_Pain._

Followed by confusion as he tried to locate the source of the pain. He found it quickly enough, in the form of a few nail shaped indents in the palm of his hand. He stared at the marks, almost entranced by the red hot liquid pooling up in them. 

It was like Hell, but not. There was no blood in Hell, not real blood anyways. And the pain, it was different. Less intense, but more focused. More real. It made him feel more real.

"You're bleeding?" 

Dean's head snapped up to meet the questioning gaze of his brother, feeling almost dazed as he saw Sam's brow furrow in confusion. 

"It's nothing," Dean brushed it off, reaching for a cloth to wipe his hand clean. "I'm fine."

Sam nodded, but his eyes remained fixed on Dean, who in return did his best to look like all was well-- which he was. Right? More or less. He didn't know if Sam bought it, but he did look away so that was a good sign.

Next time, Sam wasn't around. They had split up while hunting a pair of vetala, running in the opposite directions for who knows how long. Dean had caught up to his fast enough. He managed to sink the silver blade into her heart, but not before her nails slashed across his forearm.

As her corpse dropped to the ground Dean stared at the cut on his arm, letting the feeling wash over him. 

It was strange. He'd been injured before, obviously. But this time it felt... good. It was a distraction. It was a feeling where he thought he'd been drained of all feelings. It was a lifeboat in a sea of frighteningly calm dischord. And it was justice. 

The knife in his hand moved to trace the wounds, and before he fully realized what he was doing he pressed the blade against clean skin and sliced. He breathed in the fresh wave of pain, knife dropping as he relaxed.

Which, of course, was when Sam showed up.

"Dean!" Sam was at his side in an instant, taking Dean's bloody arm in his hand. "What happened?"

"The bitch got me right before I ganked her." It wasn't a lie. He was just leaving out part of the truth. "I'll patch it up, don't worry."

Next time, he made sure Sam wasn't going to barge in on him. He glanced over at his brother to make sure he was still sleeping soundly before slipping into the bathroom and locking the door. 

He unfolded his silver Kershaw knife, pushing the outraged mental cries of what the fuck are you doing?! back. 

He brought it up to his forearm and pressed. 

Again, the pain washed over him like a warm blanket, and again he clung to it and pulled it tighter around him like an old friend.

He flipped the knife shut, cleaned out his wound and crept back into bed.

That became a nightly routine for him. Usually it was just one or two cuts. On nights when the nightmares were particularly hellish it was more. Days when he let someone get hurt--or worse, let Sam got hurt--were the worst. Sometimes he was well enough that he didn't do it at all. He never cut too deep, just enough to feel. Some of the cuts were barely papercuts. 

A few nights in he stopped using his forearms. Sam would get suspicious if he saw that many new cuts pop up when they weren't on a hunt. But there was plenty of skin to cut, places that Sam wouldn't see. What Sam didn't know couldn't hurt him. 

Then they met Alastair.

Alastair was familiar too. Alastair and his scathing words and his _pain_. Dean knew Alastair. So he knew the demon wasn't lying when he said that Dean was their righteous man who shed blood in hell. 

He had broken the first seal. His weakness had damned the world to Hell. 

_"You deserve this,_ the Alastair voice in his head hissed and Dean dug the knife into his palm. _You're weak. You deserve to suffer._

This time he didn't stop. He just kept cutting, mentally carving the words into his mind as he carved up his skin. 

That was when the door opened. 

"Hey, have you seen my wallet anywhere? I--" Sam stopped suddenly when he finally got a ook at Dean, sitting in the middle of the room with a bloody clenched fist on one hand and a dripping knife in the other as he stared back at Sam with wide eyes.

"What are you...?" Sam shook his head. "What happened to your arm?"

Dean wasn't often struck speechless. But it took him a good ten seconds before he had gathered himself well enough to form any response. "I got a papercut," he sneered, though the sarcasm dripping from his voice was more subtle than he'd hoped. 

It was Sam's turn to fall silent. Dean found himself wondering what was going through his mind. Was he wondering why he’d ever called this weak, broken mess his hero? Was he watching all his brother’s respect and admiration crumble away, is that what was going on behind those hazel eyes?

"How long?" Sam asked at last, expression unreadable.

Dean shrugged, hissing when his cuts brushed against the fabric of his shirt. "A while," he answered, because what was the point of lying now?

“I should’ve noticed…” Sam’s voice cracked. “Fuck, Dean, I’m sorry–”

“Stop,” Dean ordered, trying to shift in a way that covered his bloody arm from Sam’s view as he muttered, “You couldn’t have stopped me anyways.”

Sam fell quiet again. Dean wished he could do it again right now, drown out the silence with pain. His skin ached for it and his fingers twitched towards the blade, but he doubted that would go over well with Sam watching.

He kept waiting for more questions--what was he doing, why, how could he let Sam down like this?--but no more came. 

What he got instead was two large arms wrapped around him, a warm body curling around his as a hairy head buried in his neck. Even then, Sam didn't speak. 

And Dean was grateful.


End file.
